Wrangler Dani

In my daily work, I use my brain and my fingers and not much else and I get paid to do it, which is very handy. So three afternoons a week, when I teach therapeutic horseback riding lessons, I squeeze into a well-worn pair of Wranglers, lace up dusty boots and smash a hat on my head, and sometimes I wonder why I leave Important, Thoughtful Work to go sweat in the dust for half the pay.

I do it because it grounds me. I’m really not too smart, too educated or too proud to physically work for a living, and teaching reminds me of that truth. Sometimes I get overwhelmed with all the big things going on, and I need a tangible reminder that little things are equally important.

I love talking to our warm-hearted volunteers, helping them learn their way around our horses and kiddos, explaining what goes where and why. I love hearing their stories – why they love horses, why they love kids, why they care about special needs individuals. We talk about everything over the backs of dusty horses and in-between games of red-light-green-light – about religion and faith and hope and politics and great recipes and sports and the meaning of life. We laugh together when Dance, our giant draft horse, tries to untie herself and gives a cheeky glance over her shoulder, hoping we don’t notice. We laugh with April, a toddler who yells, “HI MISS DANI! I LOVE YOU! HI HORSE! I LOVE YOU! HI LETTER A! I LOVE YOU!” as she runs towards the gate, eager for a helmet and her turn on horseback. We laugh when Joe, who has autism, gives up on answering a particularly tough question and simply lays down on his horse’s broad back with a sigh as his only explanation. We smile with pride when Anna trots by herself, when Bryce figures out the obstacle course, when Kate brushes her horse by herself for the first time. I yearn to give them independence, the feeling I had when I realized that I’d just found not only a best friend but infinite liberation in my horse. Horses are therapy, not just for those with special needs, but for all of us, I tell new, concerned parents, bringing their child to ride for the first time. After one lesson, they believe me.

My boots and jeans are dusty when I get into Rocky (my truck, for the uninitiated) at the end of the day. My face is usually sunburnt, my back is sore and I smell like a horse. But I feel sunkissed, renewed, like a just got a glimpse into life that moves a little slower and is a bit more connected to the Earth. That’s why I still teach, why I’m so grateful that I still get hugs from little arms around my waist, horse snot on my shirt and dirt in my hair.

Eventually I’ll have to cut back as I get busier, and sometimes I admit that I feel pulled in too many directions. But I hope I never forget what it feels like to earn a paycheck by hoisting saddles, hollering instructions, hugging necks and sweating buckets. It’s earthy, serious, beautiful, hard, joyful, painful work and I am so grateful for it.